Southern Discomfort

Isabelle spent the morning reading a Pat Conroy novel in the hammock, strung between two palmetto trees near the pool. While she’d read all the celebrated author’s novels many times, South of Broad was among her favorites. She could never get enough of Conroy’s vivid descriptions of her beloved Lowcountry. His portrayal of dysfunctional characters made her feel like her family’s problems weren’t so bad after all.
Isabelle seldom indulged in the luxury of a morning spent lounging. She had little free time between social obligations and keeping her home spit-polished clean. But with the court case tomorrow, her nerves were on edge and she needed the distraction.
When a shadow crossed the page, Isabelle shielded her eyes from the sun as she looked up at the middle-aged woman looming over her. She sat bolt upright, throwing her legs over the side of the hammock. “Who are you? And what are you doing on my property?”
“My name is Pearl Lee, and I’ve come for my ten o’clock appointment.”
Isabelle’s mind raced. She didn’t remember scheduling an appointment, but her memory had been slipping lately. She gave the frumpy woman a once-over. Dressed in a black cobbler apron with her gray hair fastened into a tight bun, she was certainly no one Isabelle would ever socialize with. “I’m afraid I don’t know what appointment you’re referring to.”
“The job interview. About the housekeeping position you posted on JobQuest.”
“You must be mistaken. I’ve never heard of JobQust,” Isabelle said, struggling to get out of the hammock.
The woman offered a hand, hauling Isabelle to her feet. She retrieved her phone from her black patent purse and tapped on the screen. “Says here that Pritchard St. Clair posted the announcement. Is he your husband?”
“No. My husband’s dead. Pritchard is my son. Excuse me a moment while I call him.” Isabelle crossed the pool deck to the house. When the woman tried to follow her inside, she instructed her to wait on the terrace.
Isabelle sat down at her Queen Anne desk in the living room and dialed her son’s number on the landline. When he answered, she barked out, “Pritchard! There’s a woman here about a housekeeping job. She says you posted about the job on some website.”
From his end of the line came the sound of rustling paper. “Yes, Mother. That would be Pearl. Three others will follow in forty-five-minute intervals. Their names are Florence, Doris, and Hilda.”
“I don’t understand, Pritchard. I already have a cleaning service.”
“A weekly service. When you open for business on Friday, you’ll need a daily staff to clean the guest rooms.”
Isabelle brought her fist down on the desk. “This isn’t an inn, Pritchard. This is my home. I will win my court case tomorrow and end this nonsense.”
“You’re right. It’s not an inn. It’s a bed and breakfast.” Pritchard exhaled an aggravated sigh. “Dad’s will is iron tight, Mother. You won’t win tomorrow. Then who’s going to clean your guest rooms? You?”
“Heavens, no!” But what if Isabelle didn’t win? She wouldn’t be caught dead cleaning up after strangers. “Fine, Pritchard. I’ll take care of it.”
Rising from her desk, Isabelle smoothed out her linen capri slacks and tucked her gray shoulder-length hair behind her ear. She opened the French door to let the woman in. “My son has confirmed the appointment. Come with me and I’ll show you around.”
Pearl walked swiftly and quietly behind Isabelle up the sweeping staircase. “This place is humongous. Is it a hotel or something?”
“Currently, it’s my home. But my husband is determined to turn it into a bed and breakfast.”
“I thought you said your husband was dead.”
“He is. It’s a long story.” Isabelle retrieved a stack of clean white bedsheets from the hall linen closet and entered one of the guest rooms with Pearl on her heels. Pulling back the bedspread, she stripped the linens and handed the clean set to Pearl. “Let’s see how well you can make a bed.”
Isabelle peered over the woman’s shoulder as Pearl stretched the bottom sheet taut enough to bounce a quarter. She created neat hospital corners with the flat sheet at the foot of the bed and spread the cotton blanket on top, folding the top edge of the sheet over the blanket. After adding the coverlet, she stuffed the pillows into the cases, arranged them neatly on the bed, and then added the decorative shams.
Isabelle straightened one of the shams and smoothed out a wrinkle in the bedspread. “That’ll suffice.”
Pearl gathered the sheets Isabelle had stripped off the bed. “Having starched sheets makes all the difference. Do you send them to the cleaners?”
“Never! They put too much starch in them. I iron them myself. I have high standards for my home.”
Pearl handed the sheets to Isabelle. “I can see that. I’m surprised you don’t have full-time help.”
“I did when I was younger, when we frequently entertained out-of-town guests. It isn’t easy to find good help these days. No one seems willing to do things the way I want them done.”
“I’m a quick learner, Mrs. St. Clair. You’ll only need to show me once.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Isabelle deposited the balled-up sheets on the bed to deal with later and showed Pearl the rest of the upstairs. “We have seven bedrooms in the main house and five in the pool and garden houses.”
Pearl went to a window and peeked out at the ocean view. “How many staffers will you hire for your bed and breakfast?”
“Only one to start.”
Pearl gawked at her. “Only one?” She spread her arms wide. With all these beds to make and this big house to keep tidy? With all due respect, this is entirely too much work for one person. I typically work five days a week. I’m willing to work six if I’m being paid overtime, but I need at least one day off to reset.”
Isabelle scrutinized the woman, wondering if her tight bun hurt her brain. “Reset? Why doesn’t anyone just say rest anymore?”
Pearl hunched her shoulders to her ears. “Good question,” she said, and they both laughed.
Continuing down the stairs, they moved through the living room and Edward’s study to the dining room. From there, they circled back through the butler’s pantry to Isabelle’s favorite room—the kitchen.
Isabelle asked Pearl about the type of brass polish she preferred and what setting she used when vacuuming Oriental rugs. While her answers satisfied Isabelle, she wasn’t yet ready to hire her.
They stepped out the front door into the stone courtyard. Isabelle pointed ahead to the pool house and to the right toward the garden house, both built in styles similar to the main house. Together, the three residences formed an inverted U-shape with a manicured garden filling the center of the U and stretching down to the courtyard.
“This place is amazing,” Pearl said in wonder. “And your view. Does the property occupy the entire southern tip of Sandy Island?”
A sad smile crept across Isabelle’s lips. “Yes, it does. My husband used to call Magnolia Shores the end of the world.”
“Did you and your husband build all this?”
Isabelle looked at the woman as though she’d lost her mind. “The compound is over a hundred years old. My husband’s grandparents built the estate in the early nineteenth century. He was a tobacco farmer from North Carolina, and Magnolia Shores was his summer residence.” She motioned the woman to the beat-up Toyota parked in the driveway. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Have a good day. I’ll be in touch about the maid position.”
“Housekeeper, ma’am.”
Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon.”
“I prefer to be called a housekeeper.”
Isabelle gave Pearl a curt nod. “I stand corrected.”
Another jalopy of a car arrived as Pearl was pulling out, and for the next two hours, Isabelle repeated the interview process three more times. While Pearl was the most qualified of the four candidates, Isabelle preferred Hilda, a quiet and efficient young Brazilian woman who spoke no English. Isabelle saw no reason to hire any of them until Judge Buchanan announced his decision tomorrow.
Isabelle had no sooner closed the door on the last housekeeper when the doorbell rang again. Seeing the attractive man on her stoop brought a smile to Isabelle’s face. “May I help you?” she asked.
“I’m here about the bellman job.”
Isabelle’s smile faded. “That position has been filled,” she said and slammed the door in his face.
She returned to her desk in the living room and pulled out the file containing her husband’s will, a labyrinth of conditions and demands. Upon his death from pancreatic cancer ten months ago, Edward left token gifts to their children and placed the bulk of his estate in a trust for the upkeep of Magnolia Shores. The will further stipulated that Isabelle was to fulfill his long-held dream of converting their home into a bed and breakfast. Should she refuse, she would receive only a meager monthly stipend for living expenses—an amount insufficient to cover her current clothing allowance, much less the rent for a cottage or apartment to the standard she was accustomed to. Pritchard would then get first dibs on running the inn, and if he opted out, her daughter, Kate, would have her chance. If neither chose to become the innkeeper, the property would be turned over to the state and converted into a park.
Isabelle saw no way out unless the judge ruled in her favor tomorrow.